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At the very least I’ve always attempted to demonstrate a grain of critical thought. Not that my blog subjects are always worthy of it. But I try to be capable of doing so.

Blog or not, we could say that critical thought is pretty big deal, right? Without it we do exactly what we’re told. We blindly follow the first cult leader we meet. We heed the advice of Dr. Phil to the T. We go to McDonalds every day. By the end we’ve become fat losers, sitting on the commune couch, doing our Dr. Phil affirmations, eating Big Macs as we’re about to drink some funny-smelling Kool-Aid that we’re told tastes like transcendence. I’ve always been a worst-case-scenario kind of guy.

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It’s not fair.

We could even say that critical thought is, in part, that which separates us humans from the golden retriever in the back yard chasing the nearest squirrel then the nearest squirrel then the nearest squirrel…

What am I without it? I’m starting to learn.

I began writing this in an effort to figure out why I have not done a blog in a while. Pretty sure I know the answer and that critical thought, or lack thereof, has a lot to do with it. But before I reveal the culprit, I have to point out that I’m writing a blog about why I haven’t written a blog, which in and of itself is a testament to how far off track I’ve veered. This act is only half a step removed from the clichéd writer who writes a story about a writer writing. I’ve fallen so far, and I didn’t even start that high. My standards are gone.

Q: Why no blogging lately? A: I got no critical thoughts for latching onto. It’s blank up there. Emotion and instinct echo through otherwise empty space. And there is, in fact, a singular source of my brand new simplicity of mind. She’s an unrelenting, crazy-haired force, drool strings emanating from her mouth, and occasionally the origin of a funky odor.

It’s my daughter’s fault.

I can’t help it. I can’t overcome the fact that she is six months old, and she is undeniably, insufferably cute. Amazing. Everything, EVERYTHING, she does is lovely. And this cuteness cannot exist side by side with any degree of scrutiny because everything I see, every thought I have, every analytical inkling that crawls across my brain disperses and circles back… to… cute.

I am the proverbial putty. I am the blathering mess.

She peed on me as I held her the other day and smiled while she did it, and I found it perfectly adorable in every way. After enduring a moment like that, how can I expect myself to ponder some labyrinthine literary theory, as I am often wont to do on a Saturday night, maintain the criteria I set for myself, or just write a simple blog about why WWE wrestling is more entertaining than musical theater?

I’m in trouble.

Cuteness is a close cousin to emotion, and as far as I can tell, emotion is incompatible with critical thought. Imagine a chess master furrowing his brow, about to sacrifice his knight in order to capture his opponent’s queen. If he let’s cuteness wander in, he suddenly changes course because he feels bad for killing the horsey. Who knows, the royals may turn it into dog food.

The cuteness wouldn’t be a matter for discussion if it took a rest. But it’s relentless. It envelopes everything, it surrounds me – a big pink bubble gum force field that itself simultaneously generates more cuteness and holds it in. Recharging, perpetual cuteness. Cuteness on top of cuteness. I can’t disregard it. I can’t question why it’s there. This is what it feels like to be mauled by kitties.

The strangest part is when I remember I used to have standards, standards that were based on my moderate reasoning talents. Standards for my writing and my interests, standards for myself, my ways, my blah blah… I don’t know. All I know is that I ate a mushy apple the other day even though anyone who knows me knows that if there’s one food I can’t stand, it’s a mealy, mushy apple. I’ve always been good at thinking about my apples, good at chucking them across a parking lot in disgust, cursing them out of my life, being irritated at them. I’ve been good at getting wrapped up in the criticism that reinforces those standards – criticism of apples or otherwise. But now these protracted moments pop up, moments in which the world is quite round.

Sigh.

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Here we go. I can feel it creeping in as I watch her attempt to chew on her own foot. It’s like the captivation of daydreams, being led helplessly through curves. What was I saying? She’s babbling, imploring her toes forward, squealing at them for being so remarkable. Those toes. She’s explaining in jabbers that she feels bad for the slobber bath that’s about to befall them, but they’ve brought it on themselves. It’s what happens when one loves ones toes so much – the way of the world. She gives me no choice. I’m a goner. Adios. And in a moment that’s coming up more frequently, I think how we ought to get a dog someday, a poorly behaved dog that does silly things. We’ll play with him in the back yard, running crazily through the trees, and we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh.

-MC JLight and Loretta

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